Thai for lunch

“Don’t judge me, just pray for me and help me… Don’t pray for me, just walk with me and talk with me…” - Celest Divine Ngeve

Mr. Clark and I had Thai food for lunch the other day; and, I am a political Liberal. While neither of these things is probably a surprise to my loyal readers, there is a surprising connection between the two statements – a connection that Mr. Clark told me about over our Thai lunch.

According to a website called Hunch, which uses multiple choice questions to compile what 64,000 people (to date) think about a whole bunch of different topics (5,000 to be exact), self-described Liberals eat more Thai (and Indian) lunches, than self-described Conservatives, who prefer pizza, macaroni and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch.

For dinner, Conservatives lean towards fried chicken, meatloaf and steak, while Liberals eat things like “veggie burgers” and curry. According to the site, Conservatives eat fast few “a few times” each week, while 92% of Hunch Liberals say they never eat fast food. However, when asked if a bacon double cheeseburger is “delicious” or “despicable,” over half of the respondents in both groups said “delicious.” (Hmm…go figure…)

Liberal Hunchers prefer thin or regular crust pizza, while Conservatives go for deep dish. When asked how often they eat fruit, Conservative Hunchers said less than once a week, while Liberals say they eat fruit almost daily. Conservative Hunchers like white bread and prefer “mild” foods, while Liberals said they prefer multi-grain bread and “spicy” foods.

When asked what “exotic ethnic food” they prefer, a large majority of Conservative Hunchers said “Chinese take-out,” while the Liberals went for “Pan-Asian” or “French-Fusion.” Along the same lines, Liberal Hunchers said they prefer “smaller portions” and “artfully arranged” foods, while the Conservatives prefer bigger portions, “plainly arranged.”

Both groups, however, have several things in common. Their favorite lettuce is Romaine; the second pick for Conservatives is Ice Berg, while Liberals chose arugula. (Bitter! Yuk!) Apparently, both groups like salt on their margarita glass rims, and also prefer that their sandwiches be cut diagonally, rather than vertically. And, according to Hunch, everybody likes hot dogs.

So, what does all of this have to do with anything that might even remotely matter?

Maybe it’s that we all – Liberals and Conservatives - like hot dogs…Maybe it’s that a guilty little sin both groups admit to is that they find the notion of a bacon double cheeseburger to be “delicious” rather than “despicable”…Maybe it’s that, given the choice, we could choose to respect each others’ differences and agree to disagree - rather than distrust, disrespect, and (in the vernacular) generally “dis” each other with the frequency that we do.

There is a level of bile, rancor, disdain, disrespect, anger and even hate, that bubbles between people with differing opinions in our society and, in addition to being destructive, it’s very unattractive. All you need to do to experience this first hand is go to this paper’s on-line version and read what some of the bloggers have to say.

My response to them is that life is not a reality TV show, and everyone around you is not an extra waiting to hear what you say next. We are all in this together and there’s no reason the ride needs to be filled with rudeness, disrespect and hate. We live in a still-wealthy country (in spite of the recession); we have the freedom to speak (and blog) openly; and, we, as a nation and a people, remain well and bountifully blessed.

Thank goodness for a level of security and wealth that allows us to spend time responding to on-line questionnaires about what kind of food we like - may we remember that most of the people in the world don’t enjoy this luxury.

So, the next time you sit down to enjoy a hot dog (whether it be meat or “veggie”) maybe your grace could be (in the words of the Charter of the United Nations) “to practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbors…” That might be a lot more positive than firing up the computer and blogging away anonymously.

Thank you

“If the only prayer you say in your whole life is ‘Thank you,” that would suffice.”

- Meister Eckhart

This week we move from the month of ghosts and spooks and things that go bump in the night, into the month of thankfulness. And, even in the context of this really beautiful time of year - the trees on fire with colorful leaves and the air so crisp, cool and fresh – “thankful” is sometimes a hard thing to remember to be.

“We count our miseries carefully, and accept our blessings without much thought,” a Chinese proverb states…so true, so much of the time!

How often do we nurse an old hurt, big worry or some concern carefully and oh! so attentively – at the expense of remembering how many things we have to be grateful for? Too often, is the answer for me. I can tell you, enthusiastically and in great detail, about the things on my “hurt and worries” list. I have to stop, breathe, focus and think to remember how consistently and generously well-blessed I am.

The other night was Halloween and Mr. Clark and I were giving out candy. I always like watching the parade of trick-or-treaters in their bright costumes - attentive parents with flashlights in hand, standing at the curb. I like to see what the kids are wearing and how they behave as they ask for and receive their candy.

We didn’t have as many young revelers as in years past, but the ones we had were in high spirits, and, in general, politer and more thankful than I remembered. A surprising number of them yelled, “Happy Halloween!” or a really joyful “Trick-or-Treat!” as they ran up our walk. And, almost all of them said a sincere “Thank you!” as they left.

Maybe the rain kept the sullen, non-costumed teenagers with pillow cases away, or maybe the tough economic times had everyone feeling a little cheerier about a hand-out. Either way, even the parents seemed more upbeat, friendly and thankful this year…

One little guy stands out in my mind. He looked to be four or five, and he was clearly an enthusiastic fellow, as we watched him come bouncing down the street and up to our house. He was dressed in red long johns and brown cowboy boots. His face was painted to look sort of like The Joker from Batman. He thanked us loudly and whole heartedly for the candy, and seemed to bubble over with energy and joy, as he stood there looking at our dogs, barking from inside the front door, the candles burning brightly inside our foyer, and the tall columns that dwarf our front porch.

“Wow!” he said, taking it all in, with a big smile on his face. Then, “Wow!” again. “I like your costume,” Mr. Clark said. “Are you The Joker?”

“No!” the little guy exclaimed, a bit indignantly. “I’m a Dead Clown!” His much quieter brother was standing next to him, wearing a thermal shirt, camouflage pants and a red clown nose.

“I’ve got his nose!” the brother proclaimed. Then they ran down the walk, into the night, once again calling, “Thank you!” and “Happy Halloween!”

Something about the little guy’s joy was infectious and, Mr. Clark and I laughed and laughed, for the rest of the evening, when one of us said, “Are you The Joker?” and, the other replied, “No! I’m a dead clown!” and, “I’ve got his nose!”

A year ago, Mr. Clark was unemployed and we had only a little bit of candy to hand out. We turned the porch light out early that Halloween night, and went to bed sad and worried about what lay ahead. This year, thankfully, Mr. Clark is employed again, and not only did the porch light stay on until our street fell quiet, but there was plenty of candy to go around, with even a little leftover. And, we went to bed feeling happy, thankful and well blessed.

Prayer is so important, as is faith and thankfulness and, cliché as it sounds, those are the things that bring us through the tough times, when joy and ease are hard to come by. There are still a lot of people out of work in our country, and a lot of folks have worries that are looming pretty large as this holiday season approaches…For my part, I will try to be generous of spirit and remember to be thankful, even when the temptation to count my miseries strikes.

I think bringing the image of that joyful, thankful, enthusiastic little “Dead Clown” (as well as his quieter brother, sporting the clown nose) to mind will help me remember that if I had only one prayer to pray, a joyous “Thank you!” would be enough.

Ghost

“From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggety beasties, and things that go bump in the night, good Lord, deliver us!” - Cornish prayer

We have a ghost in our house; his name is Pete; and, he’s just fine with me. It only seems right that a big ole’ rickety house built in 1903 would have a ghost…And, what better time than the week of Halloween, to talk about such things?

We first met Pete through hearsay. When we bought our home it was condemned and about a third destroyed by fire. It had been sitting vacant for over a year, and, well, yes, it did seem quite spooky. But, it wasn’t the house that let us know Pete was with us; it was people familiar with our house from past times who started stopping in to tell us about our ghost, as they passed by and noticed the work being done.

Apparently, the last family to inhabit the house before us was a large, creative, boisterous bunch with five kids. Those kids had a lot of friends and the house was what would now be called a “hang out house,” meaning it was a gathering place after school and before football games and for sleep-overs.

According to the accounts of the now-grown-up, once young visitors in our home, Pete was a young male entity who “liked to play tricks” especially on the kids spending time in his home. He was never malicious and only rarely appeared as the ghost-like image one might expect. He mostly just enjoyed “hanging out” with the kids and sometimes took their car keys or made noises in the night, probably just to remind them he was here.

We heard a lot of Pete stories as we restored our home, so we were primed for him to make a grand appearance once we moved in - that, it turns out, is not Pete’s style. It took him months to do anything at all, and when he finally appeared, all he did was play a series of notes on the piano or strike several random hits on my son’s drum set – only occasionally, in the middle of the night.

“Not much of a ghost there,” we thought, probably all four secretly glad that is all we had inherited...But, when the kids hit high school, Pete began to have some fun.

True to the home’s history, it was once again a “hang out house,” and, more than once, after a football game or during a sleep-over, one of our guests would have something come up missing. That happened often enough that Pete became a legend in our time, as well, and the kids would call him by name, tell stories about him, and, when necessary, ask him politely for whatever was missing, and, every time, the object would reappear, within about a half hour, in an obvious spot where we had all been looking.

One night Pete hid one of my son’s friend’s car keys, and let them reappear again, after the young man said, “All right, Pete – enough! I know you’re here. I just want to go home!” That young man told his girlfriend’s dad about the event (probably because he got the girl home late…) and that dad, it turned out, knew all about Pete, from his experiences in our home, when he was in high school…

What we heard about Pete seemed to mesh with our experience. He was good natured and loved it when the house was full of noise and energy. The only time he got grumpy was when he thought his beloved house was in danger (and we heard tales of very scary things being seen in the windows during the time the house was empty and folks were creeping around outside, perhaps hoping to steal one of the pretty mantels or ornate fireplace covers…) or when things got too quiet.

I didn’t experience Pete first hand until the year both kids left for college. One morning I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper and the kitchen clock flew off the wall, onto the floor. Startled, I picked it up and hung it back on the wall. A few minutes later, it flew off the wall again…”Wait a minute,” I thought…”this must be Pete!”

“I know you miss them, Pete,” I said. “I do, too! But it’s just you and me here now, buddy, so let’s make the best of it.” The clock never flew off the wall again…

A few years later, during the week my daughter got married, our house was once again full of young vibrant energy and Diet Coke cans started flying off the top of the fridge. (That is where we keep canned drinks.) This had never happened before, but then it hit me - my son-in-law-to-be was a big Diet Coke drinker and Pete was mad that he was taking Pete’s friend away.

We talked about it and my daughter suggested that Pete “just wants to be included.” So, we “sent” him an invitation to the wedding by putting one addressed to “Pete” on top of the fridge. And, we told him we’d set him a place for him at the family table at the reception, which is exactly what we did. The Coke cans stopped flying, and I like to think Pete had a great time dancing in his ghostly best, the night his friend, my daughter got married.

I don’t’ know if ghosts are “real,” but I like to think the nice ones like Pete are. After all, wouldn’t any house or family be lucky to have such a loyal, fun-loving being standing by, taking watch, and enjoying the unique energy that each house and family have?

Birthday

My birthday is this week. I will be 52, and for a long time I didn’t think I’d make it this far. You see, my mom died at the age of 38, back in September of 1977. I was 19 at the time and her death sent me into a tail spin that kept me swirling around in a frantic whirlwind of activity for the next 20 years because somehow, in my mind, my mom’s death at 38 meant that I would die at 38, too.

My mom and I were living in Santa Cruz, California at the time. She and my dad had divorced, and after 21 years of marriage and being a stay-at-home mom, my mom wasn’t sure what to do next. She had always loved the ocean and dreamed of living by the sea, so that is what she decided to do. I went with her, partly as an adventure, and partly out of worry – she had a lot of health problems, and having married my dad fresh out of high school, had never lived on her own.

Santa Cruz is a pretty town, right on the coast. At that time it was affordable, and my mom found a little apartment two blocks from the shore. There was a long sidewalk along the cliffs above the sea and we spent a lot of time walking along it, talking and watching the waves and the sea lions, the sea birds, surfers and boats just off the shore.

It seemed odd that my mom loved the ocean so much, because she was deeply afraid of water and couldn’t swim. It seemed particularly odd that she loved walking along those Santa Cruz cliffs, because she was also afraid of heights and the cliffs were steep, slick, and obviously, potentially quite dangerous.

The evening my mom died, she picnicked with a friend near the edge of one of the cliffs. Something happened – no one knows what – and she slipped and fell into the sea. Before anyone could call for help, she drowned. (Imagine…life without cell phones. Her friend frantically trying to flag down a car or get someone to call for help from a house nearby…)

I was too young and too sad and in too much shock to process what had happened. I moved back to Colorado (where the rest of my family still lives) and tried to figure out life without my mom. For years, I’d see someone in a crowd that looked like her and my heart would leap and I would think, “Is that her?” Of course, it never was, but it took me a long time to stop looking for her…

Shortly after my mom’s death, I put myself on a crash course to “get everything done” before my 38^th birthday. (I’ve since read this is a common reaction among young women who lose their mothers - especially to a sudden death - but, knowing I was not alone did not make the urgency to “do it all” by 38 any less pressing.)

I married at 21 and had kids right away. I threw myself into raising my kids as if I wouldn’t be around long enough to see them through. I threw myself into a lot of other things that way, too. And, I had a very hard time committing to things that reflected a belief in permanence. There was never much savings and little or no concern about working any job long enough to earn retirement…after all, I wasn’t going to be here that long…

When our kids were growing up I spent a lot of time with them. We traveled a lot and took them on a lot of fun trips because every moment seemed precious and every year brought me closer to my last…

My 38^th year came and, miraculously, nothing happened. When I turned 39, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I was alive and well! The curse was over! I had escaped my mother’s fate…But the fear, urgency and expectation of disaster continued, and the voice of doom never stopped whispering in my head…

I remember realizing that my life might, indeed, be only half over when I took my then 90-year-old grandmother to a family wedding in Mexico when I was 45. She was (and still is) quite spry, alert and mobile. We had a good time, but doom still whispered and I continued to move quickly, unsure of how much longer I might have…

It was not until a recent visit to the mausoleum where my mom’s ashes are, that I realized I had the power to silence the fear and hurry that have been my companions since my mother’s death. It had been 20 years since I had been to Santa Cruz and much had changed. The mausoleum, however, was the same – a pretty peaceful place, with lots of big windows, flowers and nice light. It took me awhile to find my mom’s marker and my first reaction, when I saw it, was shock that it looked just the same.

That reaction surprised me - of course nothing’s changed; it’s a mausoleum! Then it occurred to me that while my mom’s story ended, abruptly, on the date on that marker, my story had continued on, but I had been in such a hurry I hadn’t actually experienced it.

As I walked out into the sunlight, I realized that I could honor my mother’s memory and let my story be my own. I didn’t need to harbor the ghosts of her tragedy any longer; I could leave them, along with my sense of doom and urgency, inside those mausoleum walls and simply walk away. And, that is exactly what I did.

So, for the first time in a long time, I welcome my birthday with calm and I look forward to what the year will bring – good or bad – knowing that the ghosts I will tote from here on out, will be my own.